In the Fog
by Angelic Lawyer
Summary: Erik and Christine have a chance to debate their feelings for each other in a quite revealing encounter, one night before the masked Ball. But will this change something once Erik discover her engagement with Raoul?
1. Chapter I

**A/N:** Here it is: my very first angst phic – not a powerful, explosive one, I have to admit, but still an angst phic. This story takes place one day before the infamous masked Ball. I decided to play a little with the inexact timing in the originals and insert a more intimate encounter between Erik and Christine before that tempestuous one in the masquerade took place. I've never seen a true fog, so sorry if the descriptions are weak. Do let me know what you thought about this story; like any other writer, I appreciate reviews!

**Disclaimer: **These characters belong to ALW, Gaston Leroux and Susan Kay; I just borrowed them to write some harmless E/C :)

**"What is obscure attracts more than what is clear. Between two explanations to a phenomenon, people instinctively choose the darker one. Because the other, the truth, is simple and cannot make your hair stand on top." **

_**– Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in letter to Reneé Saussine.**_

"Damn it! Damn this fog!" Christine cursed impetuously, now more than certain that it hadn't been wise to cross the Rue Scribe's threshold at such an inconvenient night. This path was familiar to her, but with the fog even denser down here, it was a miracle that she hadn't stumbled not even once.

That increasing necessity of his presence would any day put her into trouble. It wasn't about mere music lessons anymore; in fact, it had never been. With Erik, nothing was that plain. While searching for the door of his house, she squeezed gently the adorned key he had given her during one of their first lessons downwards. Even unaware of the true meaning of that gift at the time, she had known it should amaze her.

This key gave her absolute access to his refuge. Erik had certainly been aware that it wouldn't take long for her to learn both her way behind the mirror and beyond the Rue Scribe entrance. This key was a remnant of the trust she wanted to regain.

She often wondered why it had taken a whole painful process for her to realize that, no matter the circumstances, Raoul's promises were never as thrilling as Erik's subtle confessions of love. Never had she treasured the hours spent underground as much as when she had found herself suddenly deprived of them.

Raoul's readiness to set her free as soon as they had set foot in Paris – one week after the managers' invitation arrived at his family's estate and only one day before the masked Ball – still astounded her. He had told her with a secretive grin that he had arrangements to do. Perhaps he had tired of her at last. God grant he did; she couldn't put up with his forced familiarity for much longer. His attempts to protect her from the Phantom's threat had appeared harmless and even moving at first, but soon she had grown tired of that make-believe.

Their relationship now was that of two strangers. It had been a mistake to count on their childhood memories to restore the bond that had once existed – time had slowly turned that strong tie of trust into a thin thread of lies. He had paid no heed to her true feelings, so she had hid them from him for six months without feeling the faintest prickle of remorse.

Instead, she had busied herself daydreaming of her reunion with Erik. The simple thought that her prolonged stay in Raoul's estate could cost her that reunion was terrifying. It pained her to imagine Erik abandoned with only his disillusions for so long, but she prayed that he hadn't moved on, and that she could repair in one night the damage caused by six months of separation. Not that she had come up with an easy way to do so. If things weren't as changed as they had seemed in her nightmares, she knew he wouldn't accept her apologies. And she wasn't willing to apologize.

It had been overwhelming joy for Christine to find herself alone in her flat once again. As night had drawn on, her resolve to see Erik before the masked Ball had only strengthened, in spite of the rising fog. She had the feeling that he would attend to it; even if simply to frustrate the managers' hopes that he was gone for good. It seemed vital to see him sooner, without a hundred eyes following their every movement.

**X**

She was oblivious to his gaze for the first time since he had entered her life through the mirror. Erik had immediately distinguished her vacillating form amongst the mist, and had taken it as an illusion, before remembering with a shudder of unexpected delight that illusions couldn't make his alarm ring. He wondered what brought her back to his side after what had felt like ages of absence – surely Fate wouldn't favor him like this for nothing.

Once his heart resumed its normal pulse, he decided it was time to warn her of his presence.

"It is really a surprise to see you back, Christine," he murmured from a safe distance, his voice icy in her ear.

She halted and turned instinctively to where his voice seemed to come, but only white haze greeted her sight. She shivered at her vulnerability. How could he manage to disappear faster than her most instant reactions? Was it magic, or purely his shockingly swift reflexes? His voice had left her inebriated with its transcendental beauty, but the disappointment for not catching a glimpse of Erik knowing he was so near outshone her awe.

"I can't see you, Erik," she said, with the unnerving knowledge that she would have heard him chuckle should other sounds than the pounding of her own heart reach her ears. He was deliberately taunting her, and her statement undoubtedly amused him.

A grin escaped his lips. He had expected to baffle her with his ventriloquism. How differently she would have reacted to that trick just months ago! She had once trusted blindly in his voice, loved him in his invisibility. Having her beloved Angel a little bit closer would have thrilled her so much… even if that precious closeness were just another lie. A long time after that damned morning, he was eventually confronted by the realization that the brusque abolition of her ideal of the Angel of Music must have changed her concepts more drastically than he had feared. Now, he could hardly fathom which frightened her the most: the sight of him or not seeing him at all.

"Tell me what brings you here," he demanded, ignoring her implicit request.

She sighed. There was always something between them – the mirror, his mask, the fog…

"I'd like to talk to you," she said firmly, as though these words alone could solve their problems.

"Yes?" he inquired, voicing his resentment with a hurtful sarcasm born amid grieving months. "Isn't the Vicomte a better listener yet?"

Though she had always intuited that Erik had witnessed every part of her conversation on the roof with Raoul, this first allusion to that night still hurt like little whips on her heart. How many times hadn't she felt her cheeks burn with shame at the memory of her betrayal? How she wanted to end his pain in an instant, yet knew he would suffer as long as her destructive words waded through his mind… Ironically, the closer she could get to take that bitter memory away was precisely by reviving it, and justifying herself.

"I was frightened," she began tentatively, striving for the accurate words to define sentiments that not even she had fully recognized.

_As you are now._ He smelled her fear. He wondered how she would react should he touch her at that very moment. Would she think his arms tenderer than a foggy embrace? Erik forgot all caution, surrendering for an instant to his longing to reach for her. He was scarcely aware of his first actual steps toward her, but the certainty that his touch horrified Christine as much as his visage crossed his mind. It stopped him in time, before she could sense his keen proximity.

He clenched and unclenched his fists in pure suffering. He couldn't bear to be so defenseless around her. His love for Christine blinded him; he could see it clearly now, after that time apart. He was her puppet; just the thought of her warmth, her hair and her skin under his fingertips gave her perfect hold of his strings. This weakness enraged Erik; for how long would such forbidden desires torment him?

"Stop playing games, Christine," he roared, his voice echoing in a maddening circle around her, as if coming alive with his frustration. "I don't need to hear your rehearsed excuses. You need not hide anything from me, child."

"I am not hiding," she hissed, too exasperated with the mocking sympathy in his tone to notice his trick at once – still, it sent shivers down her spine when she did. "It isn't my fault if you never listen to the truth."

"Isn't it a little inappropriate to speak of truth so vehemently when its meaning is still new to you?" he wondered venomously.

"At least it isn't meaningless to me, as it seems to be to you " she retorted.

"You forget, Christine, that if I lied to you once, it was to fulfill your own fantasies," he quietly reminded her. "I never meant to be unfaithful to you, though I know that, when it comes to faithfulness, I disappointed you beyond words."

Silence was the only response to his heartfelt words. Deep, spellbinding silence – at least for Christine. There was no irony in Erik's speech, nothing to which she could make an immediate reply. He had told her the simple truth when she had expected everything but loving sincerity. That sudden change in his tone left her even more susceptible to the torrent of diffused feelings he woke in her.

"Erik…"

She whispered his name with such need that the least he could do was answer her.

**X**

She gasped as the coldness of his hands on her shoulders reached her skin, the thick fabric of her cloak ineffective against their deftness. His warm breath caressed the nape of her neck as he murmured restrainedly, burying his face in her hair, "You shouldn't have come so suddenly, Christine." His arms encircled her possessively, his heaving chest pressed against her back as he chuckled at the absurdity of his own words, "It almost makes me think you were missing me." Every tiny part of her tingled with the faint emotion she had fought relentlessly to drown in the depths of her subconscious. She had never known his passionate touch. Her breath grew rapid as she finally realized that she craved it, longed to dare turn and meet his lips with hers.

All these sensations surrendered her body the moment she closed her eyes and let that overpowering epiphany sweep over her. In a lapse, she found him standing stiffly in front of her.

They stared at each other in wordless communication until apprehension forced them both to avert their eyes. She marveled at his dark, heavy clothes, which concealed him so well in the shadows, but turned him into a tangible specter in the fog. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. Erik was looking inquisitively at her. __

"I was frightened and confused," she broke the silence with an unasked explanation. "Joseph Bouquet hanging up lifelessly on stage shocked me. I mindlessly seized Raoul's waiting hand and carried him with me, perhaps thinking that his soothing presence could dissipate my dread…"

He started at the word "dread", infinite sadness rushing through him_._ She had no reasons to be afraid. Erik would rather kill himself than hurt her. Everything, even the threatening fall of the chandelier exactly before her, had been dexterously calculated in his instants of fury. He was the last person in the world who would hurt her, despite his temper and his uncertainties. He was her protector. Her _true_ protector. His silent, dismayed protest traversed his expression, and she trailed off, searching his eyes.

"I know, Erik," she said gently, hoping that she could communicate with these unadorned words what was going on deep within her soul. Her hand twitched as pity and regret impelled her to caress his miserable face. Would he reject even a voiceless apology?

Erik had never done her any harm. He had never tried to hurt her, not even when she had torn his mask away. His utmost ire hadn't been enough to incite him against her. That morning, what had scared her away weren't his harsh words or any physical menace. She acknowledged long ago that deception was indeed the only possible result to her childishness – unjustly, _his _deception. She had been cruel to blame Erik for feeding her hopes and bringing happiness to her miserable heart. After all, how many times hadn't she called out for her Angel? At that remembrance, Christine lowered her eyes in shame and went on, gazing at her own hands, wet with cold sweat, "I thought I knew why Bouquet died. He had seen too much, and so did I. The thought that I could end up like him was too overwhelming to let me think reasonably. I not even recalled who you really were. I simply let Raoul decide how much you meant to me."

"Don't try to blame your Vicomte for everything. You don't know how it hurts to think you chose his watery protection, his false pledges of love instead of me, who'd walk through fire for you. I relished every single moment beside you, and dared hope you valued my company too, but you threw it all away and spent six months with him, Christine!" this time, his jealousy spoke louder than each sentiment – good and evil, sinful and divine – that crossed his expression as she talked. On the next minute, he already regretted this outburst, cursing inwardly his irrepressible temper.

Despite his angry stare, feeble hope reached her heart. What was that uncontainable jealousy? Its sting certainly wouldn't have wounded him should he find her as unworthy of his forgiveness as Christine herself did.

"You might have not noticed yet, Erik, but I wouldn't have come back if I really wanted to spend such a long time away. I dreamt of the Opera every night," she said earnestly, her eyes locked on his. "Raoul thought I was traumatized. He didn't mention the previous happenings not even once and I was never left alone. It wasn't what I wanted at all."

"Sometimes your wishes are too strange to conceive, Christine," he remarked inaudibly.

"I wanted time to think as calmly as I couldn't do here," she kept talking hastily, immersed in her redeeming declaration of guilt. "I thought my childhood best friend could offer me that. I was wrong, Angel. And I…"

Erik silenced her with an elegant motion of his gloved hand, noticing her flushed cheeks for the first time. His heart nearly ceased to beat as he interpreted that unpredicted display as a consequence of her words. Closing the distance between them, he tipped her chin, his eyes smiling to hers. After all, perhaps six months had been enough to show her how tiring her charming prince could be.

Christine then watched him disappear briefly in the fog, and heard as he pushed the door open. The gas lamps' welcoming clarity bathed the haze. Would he make her fantasies yet again come true? He wouldn't have to lie to her this time…

A few steps away, he gazed at her with caressing eyes, holding out a hand to her, beckoning her to come close with his soft, irresistible voice,

"You shan't get a cold, my dear. Come and drink a cup of tea."


	2. Chapter II

**A/N:** I must confess I wasn't thinking very seriously about writing a second chapter to this phic, but many asked for it in their reviews, so I decided to take the challenge. Hope the result doesn't disappoint you. Let me know what you think and drop me a review anyway :D This is the second and last chapter. I believe this isn't a short vignette anymore, and the story carries on until after the Ball Masque now… 

**Disclaimer:** No one here is mine, I guess :P

"I wonder if these wandering thoughts are as worthy of you as the tea you now put aside," Erik said gently, in an effort to dissipate her pensive air.

Christine looked up at him and smiled as a tide of melancholy washed over her. Six months ago, she had been perfectly accustomed to Erik's drastic changes of behavior after an outburst. She knew that he hated to see his feelings suddenly exposed, and letting them out was to him an unnecessary disclosure that he had to repair at all costs. Therefore, that sudden gentleness should be unsurprising at the present circumstances, still it had startled her for a moment. The thought that his countless nuances were no longer familiar to her was sad, but true.

"No, they certainly aren't," she shrugged. "You would be surprised at how silly they are."

"Well?" he urged her on, his nonchalant tone contrasting with the look of inquisitiveness in his eyes.

"It feels so odd and wonderful to be here in your music room, simply having tea with you…" she confessed, not sure if the words were appropriate, but still going on, "I haven't thought I would do this with anyone again."

"I thought it was quite common at the Vicomte's estate," he said, reacting with nothing but slight surprise at the underlying meaning of her statement.

She sipped her tea, analyzing his subtle response. In other circumstances, she would have thought him merely curious, but curiosity wasn't exactly the sentiment that governed Erik every time Raoul's name was mentioned.

"Not really," she replied, choosing to be disdainfully honest about how she had spent her time apart from him. "It wouldn't be the same, and there was always a social event that I wasn't 'traumatized' enough in order to not attend to."

He chuckled inwardly at her remark. He wouldn't have expected such fine irony coming from Christine six months ago. Her incursion into the aristocratic world mustn't have been very pleasant, but it had indubitably influenced her decision to come to him tonight. And perhaps it could influence numerous other decisions in the future.

Succumbing to her pleas had seemed extremely unwise, but he was beginning to enjoy it. He knew he could no longer live in crude solitude after tasting her daily company. With time, he would have ended up adoring her just like before – perhaps even more fervently –, whether she had returned to him or not.

He watched as she discreetly looked around, hoping she would see that their surroundings remained unchanged. In that dear room, it was as though that night and the six months that had followed had been just a bad dream, not so different from the ones that haunted him every night. The Louis-Phillipe room had been his haven during the past six months, though there were almost no signs of her there. Only now, when his days of grief seemed to have come to an end, was he able to notice that it was in the music room that Christine's touch lay on each detail, telling the story of every minute they had spent together. Her favorite books were still lying on a separate shelf and, despite his recent convulsed works, her vocal exercises were still placed on top of the piano.

That room had always meant a lot to the both of them. Here, they had developed a soothing relationship, completely different from everything they had experienced before. She had learnt both how to fear and how to love his company, in a process of approach initiated somewhere in their evenings of melody and words. With this, both his and her wounds had been healed. A thousand unspoken feelings were permanently floating in the air, becoming comprehensible only through their undivided idiom. He had shown his love for her through his music, and, with her beautiful voice raised in song, she had replied – sometimes with hesitancy and trepidation, sometimes with trustfulness and acceptance.

"You know, Erik, your music is what I missed the most," she said suddenly, breaking the reverie they both seemed to be in. "And you still haven't played for me tonight."

He covered her hand with his own after making sure the heat of the cup of tea he had been holding tightly had warmed it enough. "I'll always be glad to play for you, my dear," he stood up, coming undone at the grateful smile she bestowed upon him, "you just need to ask."

He began to play without preambles, as soon as he finished his awestruck path to the piano. His hands merely brushed the keys to exude the melodies that poured incessantly in his mind. It had been an eternity since he had played randomly like this… Christine's departure had taken away that fragile happiness and, ironically, he had spent most of the time afterwards composing songs that only her could sing beautifully.

Now that his heart wasn't filled with despair anymore, only light emotions flowed from his fingers. After all, this wasn't very different from composing; he was letting his feelings out in the same way.

He watched as Christine closed her eyes and tilted her head to savor the music. He couldn't hear her, but he knew she was humming the familiar melody he was playing at the moment.

The melody changed as his heart flooded with love for her.

**X **

It was with great incredulity that he felt her arms around his neck, and perhaps only incredulity kept him playing exactly like he had been doing in the past two hours.

"Good night, Erik," she whispered tepidly from behind him.

"Good night," he managed to murmur in response.

Sighing as the sound of her footsteps slowly died away, he let himself revel in her touch. Her closeness swamped his senses, and when he took a deep, instinctive breath, her presence still lingered in the air.

_Only a scent of beauty left behind…_

**X**

_He was standing just a few inches away, his cowl mesmerizing her like no elaborated mask had that night. She could see his eyes gleaming in the dark as he looked down at her. His fingers brushed her arm, trailing a seductive path to her palm, and delicate rose petals touched her fingertips. He was offering her a single black rose, and as she took it, she perceived the red fluid that was slowly finding its way to the petals._

Christine woke up with a gasp, stunned at the dark veracity of that dream. Still with vestiges of it revolving in her mind, she recognized the Luis-Phillipe room and the sound of Erik's organ, which greeted her ears. Had he played all night? The song he was playing now was anguished and passionate; she had never heard it before.

While dressing up, she recalled the pleasant evening they had spent together, wondering humorously, now that this was no longer a frightening possibility, how she would have found the Rue Scribe entrance again hadn't he accepted her back.

She ventured through the corridors, following the sound until she reached his bedroom. There, she halted and listened intently. She dared not enter that room, and she thought it useless to knock on the door; he was too absorbed in his work to hear any noise coming from outside and he obviously didn't want to be disturbed, given that he had retreated to his bedroom during the night.

Christine left the house by the lake hoping she could see Erik later at the masked Ball and intrigued with the unknown melody that emanated from his bedroom that morning. Just like her dream, it was beautiful, powerful and indecipherable.

**X**

The Red Death descended the grand staircase, leaving only sepulchral silence behind. The music ceased instantly, along with every human word, and those who believed in the Opera Ghost's legend thought he had finally come out of his lair, wearing no mask.

Erik paid no heed to the gawky Phantoms or to their disconcerted female companions, who gaped at him in great horror behind their sumptuous masks. Even Mephistopheles got out of his way as he walked toward the managers – who were shaking hard in their skeleton costumes – and addressed them,

"What could have caused such an abrupt silence, good messieurs? You should know by now that I love music. It is because of music that I am here, after all," he said with a tinge of matchless irony in his tone. The Parisian high-society wasn't as mutable as its members' affections, and the spectators tonight were the same as in the night of the fall of the chandelier. The sound of his voice, already forgotten, sent shivers down their spines now like it had then. "I present you the Phantom's opera, my 'Dom Juan Triumphant'," he announced, throwing a voluminous manuscript at André and Firmin's feet. "I advise you to ensure that my demands are met this time, messieurs. Not everything is replaceable like a shattered chandelier."

André bent mutely to get the manuscript, while Firmin stood frozen, simply gazing at the Phantom and almost believing that he was truly a ghost, in face of his implausible return.

Having finished with the managers, the Red Death whirled around to face Christine, who was moving toward him without hesitation. Erik had watched her throughout the night, still he went breathless now that he was face to face with his angel. She wore a graceful pink costume, and her curls were flowing down her back. Like a blossom amongst bumbling bushes, she needed no artifices to outshine the mere imitation of beauty that reigned in that ballroom – a pair of chandelier earrings he had once given her, along with an unfamiliar necklace were her only ornaments. Her blue eyes locked onto his and he could see the red flush that colored her cheeks as he so avidly drank in her beauty.

"Beautiful Christine…" he murmured only for her to hear, while his dark eyes burned into hers – the all-consuming passion in them was all she needed to know it was really he behind that menacing skull mask.

Greatly daring, he touched her throat, and her lips parted in an inaudible gasp. His fingertips drifted interrogatively to the chain around her neck, but Christine never cared to pull away, delighting in his touch despite its dangerous consequences. She had dreamt of the cool suavity of his caresses for so long… and reality proved to be better.

But then his eyes clouded over and she realized her careless mistake. Erik had discovered the engagement ring.

"Your chains are still mine," he thundered, his touch no longer gentle as he ripped off her necklace. "You will sing for me!"

Only she could fully comprehend the ardent possessiveness in these words and only she glimpsed the wild pain that flashed through his eyes before he vanished into haze.

**X**

With the Phantom's apparition, the masked Ball had come to a premature end, and the managers had started to work on the singular opera they now had in hands. Christine had known that the main female role was hers even before they had begun to read the manuscript aloud. Still, one week later, she couldn't bring herself to learn not even one line of her libretto. That opera materialized the recollections of her two betrayals, when she hadn't considered much before giving away Erik's treasured trust.

The morning Raoul had proposed was the morning she had returned from her Angel's home. Erik had still owned every thought that crossed her mind then. In face of her unpredicted resistance, the Vicomte had promised he would accept her final decision, whatever it should be.

"At least give the matter some thought," he had said softly, while sliding the ring in her finger. "And enjoy our engagement as long as it lasts..."

Raoul couldn't know how petty he had sounded then, and he couldn't know how that promise of subsequent freedom was alluring either. After all, he hadn't thought he would come to fulfill it. It had been just an endeavor to show her that she had a choice, when it was patent that, at least for him, she didn't.

As he had gazed expectantly at her, Christine had concluded he would be less hurt if she accepted his ways. And so she had done, not for love for him but for concern for the memories of the time they had spent together. It was pretty clear now that all this time she had loved the memories he brought, not him. She had been still grieving over the loss of her Papa when Raoul had come along. That was how he had penetrated in her heart. For a long time, nothing that hadn't been connected to her Papa had been able to reach her. She had begun to sing because her Papa wanted her to, and she had accepted the Angel of Music's apparition as an undeniable truth because of her Papa's stories. She had been terrified when the Angel had undone his disguise, yet Erik hadn't needed any old memory to win her heart.

**X **

He obviously shouldn't have come to watch over her yet again. Just to stand behind the mirror, listening to her desperate attempts to rehearse, was the cruelest of torments to Erik. He had resisted to that throughout the week, knowing he'd rather lock himself in his torture chamber than observe the sadness in her face. But she was always calling for him, and he could barely restrain the impulse to open that secret passage one last time and drag her to his arms.

He still loved her very much, although that love was blended with hurtful disenchantment now. He had tried to bury his suffering while listening to her reasons, but forgiveness hadn't come so promptly. The pain of one betrayal was excruciating already, and one more disillusion had just injured his heart even more. The thought that her love belonged to a foolish boy regardless of her pledges of fidelity was infuriating and dismaying at the same time.

"Erik."

The sudden pause she made before calling his name passed unnoticed to him, though he started once she spoke, finally realizing that she had sensed his presence and that he had been foolish to think she would remain oblivious to it. Their gazes met through the glass, though only he knew of it. Christine paced hesitantly toward the mirror, her hands joined as if she were saying a prayer.

"I'm afraid it is too late to retrieve the ring," he said, just because he found nothing else to say, "but you can still go search for its remnants in my fireplace, if you want." Even now, he flinched as the image of that ring emerged in his mind, whether in the chain around her neck or disappearing amongst the dancing flames.

"It isn't what I want at all," she replied succinctly, never feeling sorry for the jewel's final destiny.

Even with the mirror between them, his muscles went reflexively stiff with her growing proximity.

"I should have presumed that the boy would replace it immediately," he said, matter-of-factly.

"He certainly would," she snapped, "I just needed to ask."

"You did not?" he inquired with fake disinterest.

"I must ask you first why you're here, Erik," she demanded, staring at the plain surface before her as though she could see the man standing behind it. His coming here meant perhaps a chance to seek his forgiveness without seeking him first.

"I don't want to see my opera ruined," he said coldly. "I have to know what impedes you from singing at least one line decently."

"My shameful actions," she answered, a somber note in her voice. "These lines remind me of the time I didn't know what I wanted. Now, I do."

"In your place, who wouldn't?" he retorted. And, noticing that that dialogue was becoming routine, he added sarcastically, "I can still pay attention to the gossip in the Opera and find out when and where your wedding will occur, you don't need to give me a formal invitation."

"I don't think gossips could tell you what I can," she muttered.

"Indeed," he retorted swiftly. "They did so in a more sincere way."

"Things changed when you appeared to me, Erik," she said, obliquely answering him, "not like the Angel of Music, who I already loved so much…"

"… but like the beast you still shrink from," he cut her off. "I thought we've discussed this enough. I already know how traumatic I can be."

"I wish you could listen to me before drawing your conclusions," she hissed, frustrated with that interruption. "I loved Raoul for the memories he brought. I wasn't engaged to the Vicomte de Chagny, but to the boy I used to play with in Perros-Guirec. With you, it is different."

"Memories deserved your love more than your viscount did," he replied harshly. "A fantasy deserved this feeling more than _I_ did. That's the difference."

She wondered for how long he would remain blind to the truth. In a swift, terrifying motion, she opened the passage like he dared not do, and crossed the ultimate threshold. Erik stood still, preserving his air of aloofness despite his shock. He wondered what she intended to do now, standing before him. That closeness could do them no good.

Still, Christine reached for him and cradled his face.

"I have loved memories for long enough," she whispered softly. "I cannot do this again."

He remained silent, fighting the dawning hope in his heart. Remembrances of the pain she had inflicted upon him, of the dread and loathing his face brought to her, everything seemed useless against Christine's influence. Was he beginning to forgive her? He couldn't think of forgiveness right now, but rather, of forgetfulness.

"We've been in the fog all this time," she continued, handing him a black rose. "I hope we find our way out now."

Erik stared at her gift for a moment, before kissing it gently and tucking it on his lapel. Even withered, it was lovely and radiant like no other rose he had seen. It had been red in the past, possibly one of the roses he had so often presented her with. Its dark petals seemed to regain their softness under his touch, and, written in red ink on them, a declaration so beautiful that he would never forget.

_The darkness of your soul attenuates the hardness of my heart. Just like the rose that irradiates the red yet again, my heart retakes a life forgotten in a distant past. **x**_

That rose would soon turn into dust, never leaving his lapel. The small amount of love in it would have been enough to keep his heart beating for a long time.

_**x**Thanks to Vinícius for the breathtaking quote and imagery. You and your writing brighten my days, meu amor…___


End file.
